


Too pretty for God to let us die

by Cobralingus



Series: 12 Days of Firefly [3]
Category: Firefly, Serenity (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Grief/Mourning, It'll all come out in the Wash, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, too soon?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 12:06:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19887469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cobralingus/pseuds/Cobralingus
Summary: In the immediate aftermath of events on Miranda, Zoë and Mal are attempting to comfort themselves, in their own separate ways.





	Too pretty for God to let us die

**Author's Note:**

> The first words your soulmate speaks to you are written somewhere on your body. If they haven’t been born yet, the words are an illegible smudge. When they die, the writing fades to grey.

Zoë was accustomed to watching Mal’s back. Captain, Sergeant, plain old Malcolm Reynolds: she had been behind him as long as she’d known him. It was why she was one of the very few people who had seen his soulmark, mostly hidden under his collar, and why she was one of even fewer who had seen it before it faded to grey.

_ “We’re gonna die.” _

Helluva mark. Sure, an optimist would probably tell you that it was something kids would say during a game, trying to scare one another, but no soldier was that optimistic. At least, not the ones who had fought for independence. That was a war mark and no mistake. She didn’t blame him for keeping it covered. Especially after it faded.

Zoë rubbed her hip absentmindedly, where her own faded mark lingered. No-one told you how much a grey mark ached, even after they faded. No wonder the Captain always looked like he had a migraine, with that albatross hanging on the back of his neck.

It was why she didn’t mind sitting here keeping a lookout while he forgot himself for a while, and if the women he chose looked a lot like Inara, Zoë would never say anything. He kept his shirt on, didn’t let anyone but Zoë get behind him, and didn’t mention the drinks she had while she waited. Never enough to lose her edge; just enough to dull the ache in her hip and her heart.

“Another.”

She watched carefully as the bartender poured her drink. No sense taking risks. At least, not unnecessary risks. No risks would mean not drinking, and there was no way she was going to sit in mourning in a brothel sober.

“We have men available too, if women don’t take your fancy. Or something a little more exotic?” The bartender was mopping up a spill a little farther down, but their voice carried over to Zoë.

She shook her head with a bitter smile, tossing back the last of her drink. “I’ve got all I need tonight right here. At least, I will when you refill my glass.”

The bartender took the hint, poured the whiskey, and wandered down to see to customers more willing to spend their credits.

It was always strangers who asked the questions. Never the crew. The crew had always known which questions they could ask about the war, which ones they couldn’t. They talked about the explosives in the apples. They didn’t talk about their soulmarks.

They didn’t talk about Serenity Valley. Didn’t talk about the poor, dumb boy who stood up and got himself shot after the battle was over and their air support was pulling out. Bendis. He was just a kid. And while Mal was standing there in shock, trying to get himself shot, Zoë had scrambled to the kid’s side to try to save him. She’d ripped open his uniform to assess the wound and saw his soulmark, scrawled in a familiar hand across his chest and half hidden by the blood that was no longer spurting from the wound. She had wiped it away and sat back in shock.

_ “Bendis, give us some cover fire. We’re going duck hunting.” _

Mal’s words to the kid. They had been so busy fighting for their lives that they had never spoken in all the months they had been sleeping beside one another. And then, at the bitter end, they’d finally said the words and the  _ stupid _ kid had gotten himself killed. 

So here they were, Mal and Zoë, two soldiers without a war in a brothel on an unnamed border planet, trying to forget the people they’d lost. She considered her empty glass as her Captain finally left his comfort behind.

“Looks like mighty weighty thoughts for a place like this, Zoë,” he said, shrugging back into his coat.

“Wondering what the point of it all is, sir. What we’re doing here. Why the fates let us walk away.” She put the glass down and followed him back out to the ship.

“I’d have thought it was obvious. We are just too pretty to die.”

Zoë shook her head and muttered behind him, “Some days I wish I were a little uglier, then.” 


End file.
